By Francesca Matthys
….and he was hopeless, but there was nothing hopeless about him. He took each moment and wrapped it up in a sleeve of moist Tobacco and skin. Last night he crowned an eagle and they became companions. It was the next morning that he became cognizant to her predation. He wanted her to be tender but they both knew that morning meant leaving and leaving meant mourning.
I will forever want to watch him as he crawls in and out of his wavering Wagon. Reminiscing on before and friends and lovers and lovers who were never friends but perfected strangers. They would meet every year he said, when the sky was dry, for that second. It was done and now the shame and residue of the night stuck to his hands as he scrubbed and scorched and screamed into the metal sink. The cold rushed up from his feet, he was barefoot. It shot up to his heart and it made the water escape.
He was too lazy to do anything, but not too lazy to feel.
I apologize malted man; you were always your own enemy.
Where do you go when you are absent,
are you buried between her breasts,
are you tucked beneath her thighs.
There’s a cavity that rises and falls as she inhales your dilapidation. Your fear and hers soon acquaint, mate and then she is gone.
You lie there alone…sheets wilted, pillows pounded and your heart and ancient myth. Mine fails to leave you as I consciously cling to the crevasses near your elbow, to come closer to be closer.
As if you have morphed inside of me, a part of me. Not leaving.
It was unfortunate, your kind nature, your openness, warmth and ability to make four walls feel spiritual, electric.
I’m afraid of your magnetism this time, I’m afraid of tears that don’t fall.
That sharp light veiling my eyes as I lay in my suburban grave, restless, still. I am optimistic…always have been… but this…
this one’s for the gods
I was once too little.
My hair-too wild and my beliefs ‘shallow’.
I am too much, my feelings spilt across the bathroom floor, too much, too raw…red.
I am both absence and abundance.
I give in excess, often. and keep leaving; the light on, the door unlocked, my heart cavity open for all to view.
But I left and I am still leaving. Exhausted from walking, swimming and gasping for air.
I’m tired of leaving from those who have no interest in my leaving.
My intricate goodbyes fall on wasteful ears and my fading back stares at an empty door frame.
I am done leaving; allow me to arrive, to myself, just this once. Just tonight, while the air is frigid and I can still feel.
irresponsible love IIII
You are irresponsible with your love.
You cannot stay too long but stay awake at every corner and leave as if you have not arrived with charm.
You are filthy with your love and want to dive deep into everything you feel feeds your penchant. There is no obligation to the way you taint fingertips and soothe foreheads until they are at your mercy.
But there are countless late nights where you have held on tight as if you had nowhere to go and mornings where you did not leave but stayed; deceiving.
No residue. Only in your mind.
You are a collector; a martyr who will die for the paint stains you so deliberately left on our cheeks…a virescent spill that we will beg the gods to wash out by sunrise.
You are careless with your love.
You are careless and though you leave us, you are the man that will always be alone.
Wash him out of your hair sis. Like the smoke from the room at last night’s party.
Rinse the back of your neck where his hand would rest. It happened far too many times for you to miss that spot.
And your wrists…they are wrapped in his kisses that you can now part from.
The side of your breasts too…his thoughts are heavy and the centre of your heart where he rested his head like a boy. He was a boy, still is and the wheel marks of his toy car are still etched in the curve of your back.
Make sure to soak deep, let the wet of tomorrow seep into your skin. Your hips are heavy now and your pelvis begs for anew. There have been too many men that have trodden hard, unconsciously. Your thighs too…and the back of your legs, your feet and where you walked to him that day in the heat, and cold and wind.
Wash them now.
The rain is here for a reason and now you can dance barefoot until the only smell you can smell is that of earth, mother rising up to cover you with her.
And when you’re done sis, remember to throw out the bath water…far…not in the garden, nowhere near fertile soil because that love is stale now and you are everything.